


makes the heart grow fonder

by fallingintodivinity



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Pining, Possessiveness, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22108900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingintodivinity/pseuds/fallingintodivinity
Summary: “Ah!” says the innkeeper, as the rowdy crowd finishes singing a song about Geralt’s heroics and segues seamlessly into a saccharine love ballad about the fairytale romance between the daughter of a baron and a lowly bard. “This song, it’s by the very same bard who sang those songs about you, Master Witcher! So in love, he is, with his beautiful lady.”“Oh, it’s so romantic,” sighs the barmaid dreamily. “That handsome bard, marrying a noble lady!”Geralt squints up at them doubtfully. “This…bard,” he says. “Dark hair, blue eyes, never shuts up?”“Aye,” the innkeeper says. “That’s the one.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 418
Kudos: 10254
Collections: Bruss, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development, Just.... So cute...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [makes the heart grow fonder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22436425) by [placid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/placid/pseuds/placid)



“Huh,” Jaskier says, frowning thoughtfully at the letter he’s just received.

Across the table, Geralt ignores Jaskier and takes a bite of his lunch. It’s been about five months since Jaskier started tagging along with him, and he’s long since learned that the bard is perfectly capable of holding up both ends of a conversation without any actual input from Geralt.

The inn they’ve stopped in, in northern Redania, actually has good food for once. Geralt’s not generally too picky about what he eats, given that he spends nine out of ten nights camping in whatever wilderness his current contract takes him to, and eating meat roasted on a spit.

It’s nice, though, once in a while, to taste something with actual honest-to-god spices in it. Geralt applies himself to the task at hand with vigor, and, when Jaskier’s too busy staring at his letter to eat his own food, Geralt helps himself to a portion of that, too.

“Hey!” Jaskier says indignantly, when he absently pokes at his plate with his fork and succeeds only in shifting the few remaining crumbs around.

Geralt shrugs. “Thought you didn’t want it.” He gestures to the innkeeper for another plate for Jaskier.

“I was _busy_ ,” Jaskier says, pouting. He waves the letter at Geralt. “A friend of mine is in need of some assistance, so it looks like we’ll be parting ways for a while.”

“I’m sure I’ll survive,” Geralt says dryly, as a barmaid comes by with a fresh plate of food for Jaskier. The bard beams up at her, and the girl giggles, blushing a fetching pink. Geralt rolls his eyes.

“I saw that,” Jaskier says once the barmaid leaves, pointing his fork at Geralt. “And you’d better survive. I can’t write ballads about a _dead_ witcher, that’s no fun at all.”

***

Geralt spends the next month taking contracts in Redania, killing ghouls and drowners for coin. Which would have been just _fine_ with him before, just him and Roach and a few thousand monsters waiting to meet the pointy end of his swords – but now, annoyingly, Geralt keeps feeling like there’s something missing. It’s like an itch that he can’t quite reach, simmering just under his skin and making him feel short-tempered and irritable.

Four and a half weeks after he and Jaskier parted ways, Geralt muzzily blinks awake in the middle of the night to find that his campfire has gone out. It’s drizzling, the kind of light, dreary rainfall that can go on for hours without stopping, and the moon is a pale, narrow crescent behind thick grey clouds. There’s a slight chill on Geralt’s skin, which means that for any normal human being, it must be freezing.

“Get over here, Jaskier,” he says; the bard has always been susceptible to the cold – then Geralt sits straight up in his bedroll, abruptly wide awake, and looks around at the empty, conspicuously bard-free campsite around him. He rubs a hand over his face.

“Goddammit,” he mutters.

The next morning, he dispatches a group of harpies that’s been terrorizing the nearby town. They aren’t even much of a challenge, which just makes him more annoyed.

Geralt makes a little more of an effort to stop by inns nowadays, instead of camping far off the main roads all the time. He gets recognized in some of the places he stops at because of the songs Jaskier’s been singing about him, but nobody seems to have actually _seen_ the bard recently.

Not that Geralt’s _looking_ for him or something like that. It’s just that it’s been a while since he last saw Jaskier, and it’d be nice to know that the idiot bard’s still alive, that’s all.

Geralt’s all the way on the southern border of Redania, about to cross into Temeria, when he enters one of the larger taverns near the border to cries of, “look, it’s the White Wolf!” and tipsy singing of a song all about Geralt heroically and singlehandedly saving a village from devastation and ruin, which has Jaskier’s fingerprints all over it.

It transpires that the bard who had composed that particular song had passed through the town a few days ago, which the chatty innkeeper tells Geralt as he brings him a mug of ale. The rowdy crowd in the inn, meanwhile, finishes singing the song about Geralt’s heroics and segues seamlessly into a saccharine love ballad about the fairytale romance between the daughter of a baron and a lowly bard.

“Ah!” says the innkeeper to Geralt, who is concentrating very hard on his ale and hoping that the innkeeper takes the hint and leaves him alone. Alas, the man does not. “This song, it’s by the very same bard who sang those songs about you, Master Witcher! So in love, he is, with his beautiful lady.”

“Oh, it’s so romantic,” sighs the barmaid dreamily, appearing beside the innkeeper with Geralt’s dinner in hand. She places the plate on the table. “That handsome bard, marrying a noble lady!”

Geralt squints up at them doubtfully. “This…bard,” he says. “Dark hair, blue eyes, never shuts up?”

“Aye,” the innkeeper says as the barmaid scurries off to wait on another table. “That’s the one. He’s marrying the Lady Petra – the daughter of the new Baron of Tridam. Lovely girl, she is.” He blinks at Geralt, looking slightly alarmed, then starts to back away slowly.

Geralt frowns, then realizes that his hands have clenched themselves into fists on the table. He unclenches them with an effort. “Did this bard mention where he was headed?” he asks, a little stiffly.

“Er,” the innkeeper hesitates, then stammers out when Geralt glares at him, “Blaviken, Master Witcher! He said he was headed to Blaviken.”

Geralt gets to his feet, leaving his plate untouched. He has, for some reason, lost his appetite. The innkeeper scuttles back a few steps, eyeing Geralt nervously as he digs out a couple of coins from his pocket and places them on the table to pay for his dinner and ale. He nods curtly to the innkeeper, then strides back out of the inn, heading to where he left Roach, and rides out of town.

He’s going to continue south into Temeria like he planned. Jaskier is fine; apparently he’s doing very well, actually. Probably very excited about his impending nuptials. Anyway, point is, the bard is safe and sound, so Geralt can stop worrying, _not_ that he was worrying anyway.

So. He’ll go to Temeria, see if there’re any contracts in the area, maybe look up Triss and ask if the princess is doing any better.

Geralt makes it all of one mile before giving in with a resigned sigh. He fucking _hates_ Blaviken.

He turns Roach around and rides back north as fast as she can carry him.


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt reaches Blaviken in just under a week, and is promptly pelted with rotten vegetables. Again. Grumbling under his breath, he draws his swords and scowls at the villagers fiercely until they scatter, muttering “butcher!” and “murderer!” just loud enough for him to hear them.

He sighs irritably, sheathes his swords, and stomps over to the inn.

He almost provokes a brawl at the inn just by stepping into it. “It’s the butcher! He’s back!” yells one man, and right away another six men jump in, howling curses at him. Resignedly, Geralt braces himself for a fight, when a familiar voice exclaims from behind him, “what the – Geralt!”

When he spins around, Jaskier is standing right behind him. The bard grabs Geralt’s arm, tugging him towards the stairs. “Come on,” he urges. “Before the good townsfolk decide to lynch you.”

Geralt shoots one final glare at the men still cursing at him, then turns and follows Jaskier up the stairs. It turns out that the bard has been staying in a room here, which he brings Geralt to.

After shutting the door of his room behind him, Jaskier turns to regard Geralt quizzically. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says. “You hate Blaviken.”

“Yes,” says Geralt.

Jaskier stares at him in puzzlement. “Okay, so…what _are_ you doing here?”

And that’s…a damned good question. He’d pushed Roach all the way here, almost a week of riding, right after hearing about Jaskier’s impending nuptials, and he _still_ has no explanation for why he’s here, in goddamned _Blaviken_.

And speaking of nuptials – “why are _you_ in Blaviken?” Geralt demands in lieu of formulating an actual answer to the bard’s question. “I thought you’d be in Tridam preparing for your wedding.”

Jaskier beams at him. “Ah, yes, my wedding!” he says cheerfully. “You heard, then! You see, I – ”

Just then, the door opens, and a blond young man who appears to be around the same age as Jaskier walks into the room. “Jaskier,” he begins, then stops short when he sees Geralt, blinking in surprise. “Oh! I didn’t realize we had company.”

_We?_

Geralt had been a little too preoccupied earlier to pay all that much attention to his surroundings, but now, after a quick glance around, it’s clear that there are two persons’ belongings strewn around the room.

There are, also, mercifully, two beds. Not that Geralt cares about _that_ at all, of course. He eyes the newcomer mistrustfully.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, “this is Piotr, an old friend of mine. He’s the son of the Baron of Tridam, and Petra’s twin brother.” He turns to Piotr. “And Piotr, this,” he says, waving his hand at Geralt, “is my friend, Geralt.”

Ah. So Piotr is the brother of Jaskier’s…wife-to-be, then.

“Hello,” Piotr says cheerfully to Geralt. “Jaskier’s told me all about you.” He grins impishly at Jaskier.

“ _Piotr,_ ” Jaskier hisses. He looks a little flushed, warm color high on his cheeks. Geralt glances between them suspiciously.

“On a more serious note,” Piotr says, sounding apologetic, “I’m very sorry to interrupt your conversation, but.” He turns to Jaskier and says, urgently, “they’re here.”

Jaskier winces. “Ah. Well,” he says wryly. “We’d best get moving, then.”

As Piotr scurries around the room, hurriedly shoving his belongings into his pack, Jaskier turns to grin at Geralt, who frowns at him questioningly. Instead of explaining, though, Jaskier just grabs his pack and his lute, and says, “coming?”

Geralt shrugs and follows Jaskier and Piotr out the door.

They dash through the corridor and back to the rear of the inn, then go up a flight of rickety stairs to the roof. As Geralt watches incredulously, Jaskier and Piotr drag a few dusty planks from where they’ve been lying neglected in a corner, and lay them from the edge of the inn’s roof to the roof of the next building. They’re both laughing like a couple of children.

From somewhere downstairs, there’s a cacophony of shouts, followed by footsteps thundering up the stairs.

“Come on, Geralt!” Jaskier urges, then follows Piotr across the planks to the roof of the next building. Geralt brings up the rear, glaring at Jaskier’s back in disbelief.

“Who did you piss off _this_ time?” he demands of Jaskier, as the bard and his friend drag the planks down on the other side so that whoever’s following them won’t be able to cross. Geralt sighs, and helps to move a plank.

“It’s kind of…a long story,” Jaskier tells him, breathless, as they run down the stairs of the new building. “I’ll explain as soon as we get somewhere safe.”

They wind through the narrow, dimly-lit streets of Blaviken, Piotr in the lead. Thankfully, it’s now late in the evening so there aren’t many people about, because Geralt is not exactly inconspicuous, and _especially_ not so in Blaviken.

He automatically reaches out to steady Jaskier as the bard stumbles over a loose cobblestone in the near-dark. With deep irritation, Geralt reflects that he _still_ doesn’t know what they’re doing, and then wonders why he’s even helping these two lunatics – except, if he’s honest with himself, he knows _exactly_ why, and the reason is currently three feet in front of him and giggling like a maniac.

He sighs.

Jaskier half-turns to grin at him as he runs, wild and gleeful, his cap of dark hair all mussed by their mad dash through the Blaviken streets, and Geralt’s heart does a funny little twist in his chest.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Geralt takes a deep breath, and reminds himself that Jaskier is…well, the bard keeps insisting that they’re _friends_ , which Geralt will concede might not be _entirely_ inaccurate – but more importantly, Jaskier is a soon-to-be-married man, and Geralt has no business wanting what he can’t have.

As Piotr, still in the lead, rounds a sharp corner just ahead of them, Geralt catches a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Instantly alert, he reaches out and grabs Jaskier, slipping a hand over the bard’s mouth to prevent him from making a sound. He hurriedly steps off the cobblestone path and tugs Jaskier with him into the dark, narrow space between two houses. Jaskier’s breath is warm against his palm.

He’s just in time; two armored men hurry out from the alleyway opening out onto where Geralt and Jaskier had been standing, looking around them as if searching for something – or someone. They confer with each other in low voices then stride briskly away in the direction of the inn, but not before Geralt catches sight of the insignia on their armor.

“Jaskier,” he says evenly, keeping his voice low. “Why the _fuck_ are the Baron of Tridam’s men trying to kill you?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Nobody’s trying to _kill_ me,” Jaskier protests as they step back onto the cobblestones. His face is a little flushed. “Just scare me and, uh, maybe maim me a little?”

“ _Jaskier._ ”

The bard puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender at Geralt’s murderous glare. “Okay, okay! So, yes, those men chasing us – well, _me_ – were sent by the Baron of Tridam, and no, the Baron doesn’t know that Piotr’s here with us. You see, Petra and I – ”

At that moment, Piotr returns from around the corner he’d taken earlier, skidding to a stop in front of them. “What are you two _doing?_ ” he demands. “Come on, quickly!”

They follow Piotr through the winding streets until he finally comes to a stop in front of a small cottage by the water. He raps sharply on the door, and after a few moments, it’s opened by a kindly-looking older woman, who beams at him and holds the door open for the group of them to enter.

The woman looks startled when she sees Geralt – he does, after all, have a…reputation in Blaviken – but she glances again at Piotr, then seems to make up her mind. She nods at Geralt and offers him a small smile, then shuts the door behind the group.

The cottage is small and cozy, lit warmly by the fire burning merrily in the fireplace. As Geralt and Jaskier look around them, the woman smiles fondly at Piotr, drawing him into her arms for a hug.

As Piotr and the woman converse in low voices, Jaskier clasps his arms around himself, shivering slightly, and really, that’s just typical – Jaskier always either overestimates how much cold he can withstand or underestimates how warm his fancy bardic finery is, and months of travelling with Geralt still hasn’t cured him of this particular failing.

With a firm hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, Geralt nudges the bard closer to the crackling fireplace. Jaskier shoots him a sheepish smile in thanks.

Meanwhile, Piotr finishes his conversation with the woman and turns to the two men by the fireplace. “Jaskier,” he says, “you’ll be safe here. Eleonora used to be Petra’s and my nursemaid when we were children – she won’t tell anyone that you’re here.”

Eleonora nods at them. “Please,” she says warmly, “sit down. I’ll get you boys something to eat.”

As Eleonora bustles into the tiny kitchen, Jaskier goes over to Piotr, putting a hand on his arm. The two men move over to the small dining table and sit down, where they huddle together in deep discussion, close enough that their knees are touching. Geralt leans back against the wall, crossing his arms, and eyes them sourly. Their heads are very close together.

Geralt thinks it possibly says something about him that he absolutely fucking _hates_ seeing Jaskier’s attention focused on someone other than himself. He’s not sure that he likes what it says about him. Damn Jaskier, anyway. This is all his fault.

Geralt is still absently glaring at the pair in front of him when Piotr glances up and meets Geralt’s gaze. He looks a little taken aback at Geralt’s menacing expression, then blinks and grins back at Geralt.

As Piotr stands, shouldering his pack, he claps Jaskier on the shoulder. “By the way, Jaskier,” he says. “You might want to explain to your witcher about Petra.”

Geralt glowers at him. “I’m not _his_ witcher,” he growls. Jaskier, too, makes a face at Piotr, blushing.

Piotr just returns their twin glares with an easy smile. “Geralt,” he says, “it was very nice meeting you. And Jaskier,” – he pauses here to squeeze Jaskier’s shoulder – “Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

“Oh!” Eleonora says from the doorway of the kitchen, where she’s holding a large wooden spoon. “You’re not staying, Master Piotr?”

Piotr shakes his head. “Jaskier will be safe with Geralt watching over him, and I’d best get back to Tridam,” he says, then laughs. “Father will probably be in a towering rage by now.”

“I don’t need _watching over,_ ” Jaskier interjects, looking indignant. Geralt snorts softly, and Jaskier turns to scowl at him.

Piotr shoots Jaskier a cheerful grin, then goes over to Eleonora, taking her free hand in his. “Thank you, Eleonora – Petra and I are very grateful. You’ll look out for Jaskier and Geralt, won’t you?”

“Of course, Master Piotr,” Eleonora says, and turns to smile at Jaskier. “It’s such a kind thing that Master Jaskier is doing for our Petra.” Jaskier beams at her.

After Piotr’s left, Eleonora waves Geralt and Jaskier over to the dining table, then serves them a hot, delicious-smelling stew. She declines to join them, saying she’s already eaten.

After telling Geralt and Jaskier that there’s a small room upstairs for them to sleep in, Eleonora disappears back into the kitchen. The moment she’s gone, Geralt leans across the table, pinning Jaskier with a glare. ~~~~

“Now,” he says firmly, “are you going to tell me why your wife’s – ” his throat closes up around the word ‘wife’, and he has to clear his throat – “your wife’s father is trying to _kill you_?”

“The thing is, um,” says Jaskier. “Petra and I aren’t actually getting married.”

Despite himself, Geralt feels a weight he hadn’t known he’d been carrying fall away from his chest. Damn it. “Explain,” he demands. “Now.”

“I’ve known Piotr and Petra for several years now,” Jaskier says, in between spooning stew into his mouth. “I met them when I performed at one of the events their father – the Baron – held, and Piotr and I, we, er, well, we spent a very nice evening together.” He clears his throat, grinning cheekily even as he colors slightly.

Geralt scowls deeply at him, and does _not_ feel resentful at all, not even a little, because that would be idiotic of him. “Is that why the Baron sent men after you?” he says. “Because if that’s the reason, Jaskier, I swear – ”

“No, no, of course not,” Jaskier says quickly. “So, anyway, Piotr wrote to me a few weeks ago, asking for my help. The Baron’s always had ambitions for Petra to marry up, but she’s fallen in love with a commoner – her father forbade them to marry, of course.”

He stops to steal a slice of beef out of Geralt’s bowl. Geralt glares at him, but makes no move to recover it. He shifts his bowl a little closer to his side of the table, just in case the bard makes a second attempt on his food.

“So,” Jaskier says, chewing happily on the beef, “the twins and I decided we’d pretend that Petra was planning to leave Tridam and marry me, as a…distraction, if you will, for the Baron.” He beams at Geralt proudly. “I composed a ballad about it – quite a masterpiece, if I do say so myself! – and performed it at taverns throughout Redania until Piotr sent me a letter to tell me that word had gotten back to the Baron.”

“Let me guess,” Geralt says dryly, scraping up the last of his stew. “The Baron wasn’t happy.”

Jaskier laughs. “Well, you saw how unhappy he was firsthand, earlier.” He spoons up the last of his stew as well. “So, in his letter, Piotr told me to meet him in Blaviken to lay low, said he knew someone here who could hide me if the men the Baron sent after me found out where I was.” He waves his free hand around to indicate Eleonora’s house.

“You told the _whole damned world_ you were going to Blaviken,” Geralt says irritably. “No wonder the Baron’s men found you.”

“What’re you talking about?” Jaskier asks, tipping his head to one side quizzically. “No, I didn’t.”

“I found out you were here from an _innkeeper_ ,” Geralt says, with deep exasperation. “In an inn near _Temeria._ ”

Jaskier blinks. “Huh,” he says. “So maybe I _did_ mention it to a few people.”

Geralt sighs, putting his head in his hands.

“Wait a minute,” Jaskier says, perking up. “So you came to Blaviken to look for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Geralt growls, but Jaskier is already beaming delightedly at him, so he gives it up as a lost cause.

“And I assume that Petra has married this man she’s in love with, while you’ve been leading the Baron’s men on a merry chase?” Geralt asks, mainly to stop Jaskier from _smiling_ at him like that. It makes his skin feel too tight, his fingers itching to reach out and trace the upturned curve of Jaskier’s lips.

“Yep,” Jaskier says cheerfully. “And after they get back to Tridam and tell the Baron, he’ll stop sending his men after me.” He pauses. “Um, I think.”

“If he doesn’t decide to have you killed anyway, for going along with this harebrained scheme,” Geralt points out mildly.

“Oh!” Jaskier looks alarmed. “I didn’t think of _that_.”

Geralt scrubs one hand over his face. So…Jaskier has a contingent of armed men after him because he wanted to help his friend marry the man she loves. It’s so damned _typical_ that it gives Geralt a fucking headache.

He hopes fervently that the Baron decides to be magnanimous and let the whole thing go, or Geralt is going to have to kill a whole bunch of people, and he really doesn’t want to be known as the Butcher of Blaviken _and_ Tridam.

Well, Jaskier isn’t getting married, at any rate.

Geralt glares across the table at the bard with as much irritation as he can muster, but the expression on his face must not have been what he’d expected, because Jaskier leans across the table and touches his hand lightly.

“Before Piotr left, why did he say I should explain to you about Petra?” he asks.

“You should ask Piotr that,” Geralt says, “since you two are so _close_.” He shakes Jaskier’s hand off.

Jaskier considers Geralt for a long moment, then says, “that was years ago, and it didn’t mean anything.” He pauses, then adds, eyebrows rising, “speaking of things that _mean something_ , though, there’s a certain witcher I’ve been travelling with for _months_ , spent every moment of my time with, but somehow he just won’t take a hint – ”

“Fuck off,” Geralt mutters, and Jaskier laughs warmly, smiling up at Geralt, soft and fond.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Geralt growls, looking away.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and there’s a vulnerability in his voice that makes everything in Geralt snap to attention, all his protective instincts coming to the fore – and damn it, when had keeping Jaskier safe become a _reflex_? He shifts uncomfortably, looking back at Jaskier, whose eyes are wide and unguarded, and very, very blue.

“I’m not reading you wrong, am I?” Jaskier asks, and there’s uncertainty creeping into his voice now, and that just won’t do.

“…no,” Geralt admits gruffly. He clears his throat. “You’re not.”

He looks up at Jaskier, startled, as the bard gets to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping loudly across the floor when he pushes it back from the table.

Jaskier smiles down at him and holds out a hand, inviting. “Take me to bed, Geralt,” he says.


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt’s barely shut the door of the room they’re being loaned for the night, sat down on one of the two beds and taken off his boots before Jaskier, his own boots already off, pushes him down on the bed. The bard immediately clambers over him, straddling his lap and fitting their mouths together, kissing him hot and demanding, fingers deftly undoing the buckles on Geralt’s leather jerkin.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he pants against Geralt’s lips, “for months, Geralt. _Months_.”

“I thought you were about to _marry,_ ” Geralt mutters fiercely, fingers flexing on Jaskier’s slim hips as he plunders the bard’s mouth. “You’re _mine_.”

“I should announce my impending nuptials more often,” Jaskier says breathlessly when he surfaces for air, “if _that’s_ the reaction I get.”

“No,” Geralt tells him, firm and possessive. “ _Mine_.” He tugs the bard even closer so that their clothed cocks rub up against each other, and they both groan fervently at the sensation; like Geralt, Jaskier’s already fully hard, his trousers tenting obscenely in the front.

Jaskier laughs against Geralt’s mouth, warm and intimate. “Very prehistoric of you,” he murmurs archly against Geralt’s lips. “I rather like it.”

“Do you _never_ stop talking,” Geralt groans as Jaskier’s hand creeps between his legs, caressing.

“It’s one of my best traits,” agrees Jaskier, with a pleased hum as Geralt palms his ass, then he moans as Geralt claims his mouth again.

“Take this off,” Jaskier mumbles against Geralt’s mouth in between frantic kisses, tugging at Geralt’s jerkin, already hanging open with all the buckles undone. Geralt shrugs the jerkin off, and Jaskier promptly swipes the garment right off the bed with an impatient hand. The jerkin lands on the floor with a metallic clang of buckles.

Without releasing Geralt’s mouth, Jaskier starts working on his shirt buttons, slender fingers brushing Geralt’s chest. Geralt opts for the more expedient method of yanking Jaskier’s shirt open, tearing the delicate silk garment right down the middle with a loud ripping noise.

Jaskier makes an indignant noise into Geralt’s mouth, which melts into a low moan as Geralt kisses him again wet and hungry, curling one hand over Jaskier’s groin to squeeze the promising bulge there. The bard’s tattered shirt is forgotten as they wrestle each other out of their trousers and shorts, both of them almost falling out of the narrow bed in the frantic struggle to get the last of their clothing off.

Geralt rolls them over so that the bard is lying beneath him, dark hair fanning out around his head, blue eyes dark with arousal. Jaskier’s so beautiful naked, all pale perfect skin and lithe muscle, his cock fat and pink, precome welling from the tip. Geralt shifts to kneel between the bard’s legs then ducks his head to lap at Jaskier’s cockhead, the taste of him salty on Geralt’s tongue, and Jaskier gasps, his hips hitching.

“ _Geralt,_ ” he says, and he’s looking down at Geralt, eyes wide and dark. Geralt’s been with men only a few times in his life – before Jaskier, he’d usually preferred women – and it’s been a long time since he’s sucked cock, but, gods, he wants this badly, wants to fill his mouth with Jaskier’s cock, wants the taste of him on his tongue.

He ducks his head further, takes more of Jaskier into his mouth and Jaskier’s reaction is immediate; he moans, the sound punched out of him as his hips jerk up sharply, shoving more of his cock into Geralt’s mouth. Geralt pulls back a little, adjusts.

“Sorry,” Jaskier gasps. “I didn’t mean to – but, your _mouth_ , gods, Geralt, the _songs_ I could write about it – ”

Geralt determinedly takes more of Jaskier into his mouth to forestall any such urges, and the rest of the bard’s sentence is lost in his choked moan as Geralt sloppily mouths at him, curling his fist over the part of Jaskier’s cock he can’t get into his mouth. Jaskier’s hands come down to tangle in his hair.

He sucks Jaskier hard and wet until Jaskier is moaning incoherently, fingers clenched tight in Geralt’s hair, hips rolling up as he fucks Geralt’s mouth. Jaskier’s cock swells in his mouth, getting impossibly harder, and Geralt knows that Jaskier is close even as the bard gasps a warning, pushing feebly at Geralt’s shoulder to try to shove him off.

Geralt hums low in his throat instead, bearing down, and Jaskier comes with a wordless cry, arching almost off the bed as he spills hot and bitter over Geralt’s tongue.

He licks Jaskier clean as the bard’s breaths gradually slow, then Jaskier’s tugging him up, saying, “Geralt, _gods_ , that was amazing, you’re so – ” then kisses him, licking the taste of himself out of Geralt’s mouth. He wraps his hand around Geralt’s stiff cock, which has been steadily leaking precome into the sheets, and Geralt groans.

“I want to ride you,” Jaskier tells him without preamble, and all Geralt can think is _oh fuck, pleasegodyes_. He shifts to one side to make room as Jaskier reaches over the side of the bed to root around in Geralt’s pack, finally pulling out the last bottle of healing salve he has left. Geralt can’t even summon the willpower to put up a token protest; he’d actually be perfectly happy to bleed to death the next time he has to kill something as long as he gets to put his cock in Jaskier _right the fuck now_.

Jaskier grins at him, as if he knows what Geralt’s thinking. “We’re not using all of it,” he says, opening the bottle and tipping a small amount over his fingers. “I _am_ aware of the primary purpose of this – ”

“You can use _ten fucking bottles_ ,” Geralt rasps. “Whatever the hell you want, Jaskier, just, for the love of god, _hurry up_.”

Jaskier laughs breathlessly and hauls Geralt in to kiss him again, then pushes Geralt down on the bed and arranges himself so he’s kneeling over Geralt’s lap. He reaches around behind himself, a look of concentration on his face, and Geralt swallows hard, licking his lips.

“Can I – ” he says and Jaskier nods; Geralt tips some of the salve over his fingers with unsteady hands and reaches around so that his fingers can join Jaskier’s to stretch the bard open. Jaskier’s making these little grunts and whimpers that are going straight to Geralt’s cock, and every single one of those noises is making his skin feel hot and too-tight, like he’s going to shatter apart any second.

When Jaskier finally sinks onto his cock, it’s _heaven_ , Jaskier tight and hot around him, Geralt’s hands spread wide over the bard’s firm ass, both their skin slick with sweat as Geralt rocks up into Jaskier. Jaskier’s cock is already starting to fill again; he rides Geralt hot and hard, thighs flexing, hands splayed over Geralt’s chest, until he’s fully hard again and Geralt wraps his hand around Jaskier’s cock, stroking him firm and quick as they move together.

He’s just about getting close when Jaskier leans down to kiss him, deep and wet and hot, then slows down the pace just enough to keep Geralt on edge but not quite enough to tip him over into climax. He keeps Geralt there for what feels like _hours_ , rolling his hips gently and murmuring things so filthy that if Geralt could blush he quite possibly would have, until Geralt’s so wound up that he can’t _think_ , his fingers white-knuckled on Jaskier’s thighs and his balls tight and aching –

– then Jaskier leans down, lips brushing the shell of Geralt’s ear, and whispers, low and honeyed and velvet-soft, “ _come for me, Geralt,_ ” and _clenches_ around him, and Geralt _does_ : every single muscle in his body locks up and, gasping for air, he comes _so fucking hard_ that he almost blacks out.

When he can breathe again, Jaskier’s kneeling over him frantically stripping his own cock, and gods, he’s _gorgeous_ like this, face and neck and chest all flushed a rosy pink, lips parted as he pants for breath. “Geralt,” he moans. “ _Gods,_ how you looked just now, you have _no idea_ – ”

Geralt tugs the bard down for a hard kiss then wraps his own hand around Jaskier’s, and together they stroke him until he cries out and paints Geralt’s chest and stomach with pearly white, both of them breathing raggedly into the shared space between them.

***

Roach greets Jaskier affectionately the next day when Geralt brings the bard to where he’d left her, a little ways outside town.

“Traitor,” Geralt mutters as Roach immediately trots up to Jaskier and nuzzles him. Jaskier laughs, offering up a cube of sugar, most likely purloined from Eleonora’s breakfast table. They’d helped Eleonora to clean her living room and kitchen as an apology of sorts, for the sorry state they’d left her spare bedroom in – Jaskier had volunteered them for the task, much to Geralt’s disgust – although Eleonora had then cooked them the most delicious breakfast Geralt had eaten in months, so all in all, things hadn’t worked out terribly.

“Stop spoiling her,” Geralt grumbles at Jaskier as the bard pats Roach’s nose, murmuring endearments softly to her. He swings his pack onto Roach’s back and tightens the straps.

“Don’t be jealous, Geralt,” Jaskier teases, batting his eyelashes in an exaggerated manner. “You’re still my favorite.”

Geralt turns to scowl at Jaskier, and loses his grip on his pack as it comes loose from where he’d been tying it onto Roach. He makes a grab for it and just manages to retrieve it before it hits the ground.

Gods, but Jaskier is _infuriating_. Geralt would do anything for him.

“So, where are we going?” Jaskier asks inquisitively.

“Away,” Geralt says dryly, “from the Baron of Tridam’s men.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, mildly sheepish. “Yes, I suppose that’s a good idea.”

Geralt sighs. “Let you out of my sight for a month, and you go and get yourself almost married, then almost killed,” he mutters.

“I suppose,” Jaskier ventures, looking hopeful, “you’ll have to keep an eye on me all the time, then.”

“Hm.” Geralt swings himself up on Roach and offers the bard a hand to pull him up behind him. “I suppose I do.”

End.


End file.
